Magic Lantern. Alex Archer

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       Cars whizzed by on the dark streets. Windows of closed shops caught their reflections as they passed. The wind held a chill and the fog had increased, but the weather was still pleasant enough.

       “The images weren’t just shown on walls. They were also projected onto smoke and semitransparent surfaces, which created even more eerie effects. Phantasmagoria began in France in the late 1700s and spread all over Europe during the next hundred years. People do love being frightened.”

       “The human culture seems to thrive on ghost stories. They address common fears and offer a backhanded belief in God.”

       “If demons and monsters exist, then so must God?”

       “Something like that.”

       “You learned that in archaeology?”

       “Anthropology, actually. All part of the same field.”

       “Interesting.”

       Annja patted him on the arm. She relished the conversation, and her curiosity about the young professor’s pastime remained unanswered. “This has something to do with your predilection?”

       “Everything.”

       “Good.”

       “Phantasmagorists owed their success to the magic lantern.”

       “That was made by the Chinese.”

       Edmund grinned. “Not according to the phantasmagorists. They claim that Christian Huygens invented it in the mid-seventeenth century, and that Aimé Argand’s self-named Argand lamp made the device even better. However, I do know that the Chinese were the first to use lamps to project images painted on glass as storytelling devices. Actually, that comes into this story, as well.”

       Annja continued walking and listening.

       “Once the magic lantern was successfully designed, others were quick to use it. To backtrack a little, Giovanni Fontana, a physician and engineer and self-proclaimed magus, used a candle-powered lantern to project the image of a demon. The idea of the supernatural became a fixture when it came to the magic lantern.”

       They paused at the street corner.

       “Athanasius Kircher, a German priest, reportedly summoned the devil with his device. Thomas Walgensten called his projector a lantern of fear and used it to ‘summon ghosts.’ A man named Johann Georg Schopfer performed in his Leipzig coffee shop and summoned dead people, images projected on smoke. Later, he went insane—believed he was being stalked by devils and shot himself. He also promised he would raise himself from the dead.”

       “I take it that didn’t happen.”

       Edmund grinned and shook his head. “No.”

       The streetlight changed and they crossed.

       “The latter part of the eighteenth century and into the nineteenth century gave rise to the phantasmagorists. They began their craft in Paris, as I mentioned, but the use of magic lanterns spread quickly. At the same time, Romanticism and Gothic literature were growing. The timing for the magic lantern and the phantasmagorists, you might say, was dead-on.”

       Annja rolled her eyes at the pun.

       Edmund chuckled. “Suffice it to say, I am smitten by the whole splendor of the phantasmagorists and their lucrative entertainment. During the heyday of the shows, many hosted gatherings within the catacombs beneath Paris.” Edmund looked at Annja. “Can you imagine what that was like? There they were, deep under the city, and these phantasmagorists could make them feel as though they were walking through the bowels of hell itself.”

       “That doesn’t sound like my idea of a good time.”

       “Ever watch horror films when you were young?”

       Annja smiled. “I did.”

       “We take pleasure in tempting the dark, wondering if it will one day come out of hiding and pounce on us with a predator’s fangs.”

       “Not me.” Annja had been there too many times.

       “And yet, here you are, Ms. Creed, tracking a man who has savagely beaten and killed three women.”

       Some of Annja’s good mood evaporated, though she knew Edmund hadn’t intended for it to. And he was right about her being there in spite of the danger. She was never drawn to the danger, but she was attracted to the mysteries and curiosities. “I’m not afraid of the man who killed those women.”

       “I would prefer it if you were.”

       “He’s just a man. The police will find him soon enough.”

       Edmund nodded. “I hope you’re right. In the meantime, I’ll tell you about the particular magic lantern I have in my possession.”

      4

      “Anton Dutilleaux was a Parisian phantasmagorist in the late eighteenth century.” Seated at the small table in the tea shop not far from the hotel where Annja was staying, Edmund added milk to his tea and stirred. “Have you heard of him?”

       “No.” Annja stuck with coffee and cupped her hands around her cup to absorb the warmth. She took a deep breath, enjoying the sweet baking smells.

       “I can’t say I’m surprised. Rather, I would be flabbergasted—very much so—if you had heard of him.” Edmund reached into the messenger bag he’d brought with him from Carlini’s. He took out an iPad and placed it on the table. The screen flared to life.

       Not many people were in the tea shop at that late hour, and none of them paid attention to Edmund and Annja. They were mostly watching the television in the corner of the room. The low rumble of the news and casual conversation was a comforting undercurrent of background noise.

       Edmund touched the handheld device and opened a folder. He sorted through images, then selected one. Immediately, a taciturn man with slitted eyes filled the screen.

       “Anton Dutilleaux. This image was used on several handbills that advertised his shows. He toured Paris for three years. I couldn’t find much history on him, no parents and no idea where he lived. I just know that he traveled.” Edmund sipped his tea. “And no one ever knew much about his murder.”

       That heightened Annja’s interest. “He was murdered?”

       Edmund nodded and grinned. “Intriguing, no?”

       “It is.”

       “According to a newspaper account of the murder, Dutilleaux was stabbed through the heart by a Chinese ghost in front of several eyewitnesses.” Edmund tapped the iPad screen again and shifted to a new image. “He was pronounced dead at the scene by a doctor in the audience. Do you read French?”

       Annja nodded. “Mais, oui.” And she read on.

      Phantasmagorist Slain by Celestial Spirit!

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